


And You Know You're a Terrible Sight, But You'll Be Just Fine

by loubuttons



Series: I've Been Tested Like the Ends of a Weathered Flag that's By the Sea [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Injury Recovery, Insomnia, Maria Stark (mentioned) - Freeform, Nightmares, No Slash, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Self-Hatred, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, but only in a dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubuttons/pseuds/loubuttons
Summary: "Suddenly outraged, Tony clenches his fists. Why can’t he just have this -- a child, who cares about him -- without making everything so terrible? How dare Hydra take something so precious from him. He can’t stand the sound of his own name coming out of his son’s mouth.Not my son, he reminds himself, and it’s become a mantra in his head. He never was, and he never will be."





	And You Know You're a Terrible Sight, But You'll Be Just Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from The Hype by twenty one pilots. 
> 
> This is the third part of a series; if you haven't read the rest, I strong suggest that you do so before reading this story. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented on "Begin with Bullet, Now Add Fire to the Proof"! Your encouragement is, again, the only reason I decided to continue this story. I hope you enjoy!

This dream is not escaped easily. It lingers behind Tony’s eyelids, clinging to his mind. Slowly he wakes, breathing even and deep. These are the worst kind. The dreams that leave him calm tear at his heart more than anything else. There is no need to panic, whispers the dream, the worst has already happened. Tony doesn’t need to quiet his whimpering or wipe his eyes; there isn’t a point. 

 

It’s been three weeks since he came home. He always wakes up with either a raw throat or welling eyes -- sometimes both. Motionless, he stares at the ceiling. He can’t remember what the dream was about anymore, only that it left him crushed by dread. There is no need to panic. The worst has already happened. 

 

Numb, he stumbles out of bed. He needs to do something, anything. Instantly, he thinks of Peter’s tachyon enhancer. Although it began as a school project, he and Tony have taken to working on it together. Tony can’t remember why the thought fills him with desperation. 

 

_ Coffee first _ , says the addictive side of his brain. 

 

Near blinded by the hallway light, Tony trips his way to the kitchen. This time, he doesn’t flinch when he sees Rhodey eating with their ex-teammates. Are they eating dinner or breakfast? Glancing to out the window, he sees a sunset. Dinner then. Tony sleeps on his own schedule, not beholden to the sun. When he physically can’t function any longer without sleep, he showers, careful of his bandages, and falls into bed; it doesn’t matter what time of day it is. 

 

Ignoring hesitant greetings, Tony limps to the coffee maker. Why is he limping? Why is his leg heavy and itching? It doesn’t matter -- he can look at it in the lab. First he’ll assess Peter’s tachyon --

 

There is no need to panic. 

 

He stops in his tracks. 

 

The worst has already happened. 

 

“Tony?” 

 

There is no need to panic. 

 

There is no need to panic. 

 

_ The world has already ended -- Tony’s just now catching up _ .

 

“Tony is something wrong? Is it your leg?” 

 

He knows what happened to his leg now. He remembers the absence at his bedside after the surgery. 

 

The worst has already happened. 

 

There are eyes watching him, but none are that shade of hazel. No one rises from the table, too afraid of what he’ll do if they try to offer comfort. 

 

“Are you alright?” And he finally knows who’s speaking to him. It’s Rhodey, because who else cares? 

 

No, he should say. No, he isn’t alright -- it feels like they opened up his chest again. It feels like he lost the last good person left in the world. Instead, he looks up and tries to train his expression. 

 

“Yeah,” He lies stiffly, “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

 

Before anyone can stop him, Tony limps away, suddenly glad that his leg aches. It’s a reminder. It’s a good thing. It’s something he deserves. Tony drops himself back into bed, because his lab is tainted by the ghost of his son. 

 

_ Not my son, _ he reminds himself,  _ He never was. And he never will be.  _

 

Until his phone vibrates on his bedside table -- a special vibration, set specifically for Peter’s texts -- almost an hour later, he still thinks Peter’s gone. Scrambling to snatch his phone from it’s perch, Tony pulls his stitches. He doesn’t care. Hope is forcing his heart into his throat. Tears fog his vision, and he hastily swipes them away to stare hungrily at his screen. 

 

_ goodnight mr.stark. dont work on the tachyon enhancer without me!! sleep well.  _

 

It’s the most insignificant and important thing he’s ever read, all at once. He rereads Peter’s text obsessively, forgetting that he’s supposed to reply. When it does occur to him to say something, there’s nothing adequate. Tony can’t articulate over a text everything he wants to say to Peter right now. Faintly, he hopes Peter doesn’t want an answer. Clutching his phone, soaking in it’s blue light, Tony drifts back to sleep.

 

Peter is ridiculously behind on his English homework. On Friday, he brings piles of nearly-overdue assignments, a pleading look on his face. 

 

“I know we were going to work on the tachyon enhancer, Mr. Stark, but --”

 

Tony rolls his eyes, “It’s fine, but come on -- five page essays? One of them is argumentative. You could do this in your sleep. Why didn’t you do it before you had to make excuses to your teacher?” 

 

Anxious, Peter drags folder after folder from his backpack, “Yeah, I know that, but between patrol and coming here I haven’t had time,” 

 

“You haven’t  _ made _ time,” Tony corrects, and sighs when he realizes he’s been temporarily possessed by the ghost of his mother again, “Look, I know it’s partly my fault. I shouldn’t distract you so much,” 

 

Peter tries to protest, but Tony speaks over him. It’s a habit he developed as a child, always desperate to be heard, and never grew out of. 

 

“From now on, we do homework every night. No exceptions. Homework first; lab after,” 

 

Peter looks so grateful and guilty at the same time that Tony hates himself. If Peter was back home with May, he’d have finished this hours ago. 

 

Tony was right, the essays practically write themselves. Peter also had a literary analysis, which they both find irritating. There is rarely any point to analyzing someone else’s words. But Tony’s a natural artist -- he’s trained himself to see and make beautiful things out of nothing, since he was a child. He can help Peter fabricate paragraphs about metaphors and symbolism without batting an eye. Soon, Peter no longer needs his help; he learns so quickly that Tony’s left watching him work, with nothing to do. 

 

Truthfully, he’s bored out of his mind. Tony loved school while he was in it -- there was always something new to learn, a new mystery contained within the world for his mind to unravel. But there’s nothing new about watching a teenager write a narrative essay. 

 

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter mumbles, still focused on his paper, “I’ll be done soon, I know you’re bored,” 

Tony smirks. People are rarely allowed to know him this well. Peter just didn’t ask permission. 

 

Glancing at the clock, Tony answers, “I’ll survive. But that’s enough for tonight. It’s already midnight,” 

 

Surprised, Peter looks up, “What really? I don’t even feel tired. I feel sort of itchy and…” 

 

“Fuzzy?” Suggests Tony, who has spent his whole life struggling to explain how he feels to indifferent and uncomprehending listeners, “Like your hands are full of needles?” 

 

Peter laughs, “You shouldn’t know everything, Mr. Stark. It’s annoying,” 

 

Tony knows he can’t ask the kid to stop calling him a name that they both love, but Tony’s also grown to hate. If Peter called him anything else, it would be too formal and far too intimate all at once; he doesn’t  _ want _ Peter to stop. No one has ever called him ‘Mr. Stark’ and made him feel half as adored as Peter does. But he can’t help how his own name drags across fresh wounds, how it triggers a memory of a child --  _ his child _ \-- begging to be saved. Peter sees his sudden discomfort. 

 

“Sorry,” He says quietly, “I forget that you don’t...that I shouldn’t call you that anymore,” 

 

What’s left of Tony’s heart twists on itself, trying to destroy the remnants. Maybe after his next heart attack, Peter won’t have to feel guilty anymore. Immediately, he feels traitorous for the thought. 

 

“No, it’s…” He sighs, “It’s fine, Butterbean, don’t worry about it,” 

 

Evidently, Peter can’t help but worry, because he purses his lips and glares at his lap. Why does it have to be this hard? Suddenly outraged, Tony clenches his fists. Why can’t he just have this -- a child, who cares about him -- without making everything so terrible? How dare Hydra take something so precious from him? He can’t stand the sound of his  _ own name coming out of his son’s mouth.  _

 

_ Not my son,  _ he reminds himself, and it’s become a mantra in his head.  _ He never was, and he never will be.  _

 

Composing himself, Tony fixes a smile on his face, “Well, if neither of us is tired, no point in sending you to bed. Come on -- we can spend an hour or two in the lab,” 

 

Peter looks so hopeful. Tony despises everything about himself. 

  
  


Wearily, Tony squints at the specs on Peter’s monitor, “That doesn’t make sense, Tater Tot. You’re missing...something,” 

 

He’s so  _ tired _ . Exhaustion springs from over a month of poor sleep. Some nights, he still expects to wake up with Steve’s earnest blue eyes gazing down at him. It’s an expectation he hates, and desperately wishes he could wipe from his mind. He hates that he felt comforted by Steve’s presence in his weakest moments -- he hates that he still can’t forgive him either. Tony yearns for their friendship, for the ease of companionship he used to experience with his team-mates. But he also can’t banish the shame and rage he feels whenever he sees them. Lost in thought, Tony almost doesn’t hear Peter’s reply. 

 

“Thanks, that clears everything up,” Peter looks tired, too, which makes Tony’s guilt rear up. Is there anything he doesn’t feel terrible about? The irritation in Peter’s voice is well deserved. 

 

After inspecting Peter’s work again, Tony scrubs his eyes with a balled fist. Unbeknownst to him, Peter is staring at his furrowed brow and gaping mouth fondly. He knows Tony is trying, in every sense of the word. Try as he might, however, Tony simply can’t make sense of Peter’s mistake. It’s hidden among perfect work, which is also rapidly becoming meaningless. 

 

“It’s, oh, later than I thought,” Tony cringes, after looking at his watch, “It’s four in the morning, Hon, we’ve gotta go to bed,” 

 

Accidentally, the new pet name slips out, which is much more traditionally affectionate than most. Tony feels defeated -- he can’t even talk to Peter anymore without saying something he shouldn’t. 

 

“I’m not tired yet,” Peter sighs, also rubbing his eyes. 

 

“Yes, you are,” Insists Tony, “You’re just not  _ sleepy _ ,” 

 

“There’s a difference?” 

 

“Uh, yeah,” Tony says, like it’s obvious, “You’re sleepy when you’re seconds away from sleeping -- drooping eyes, yawning, going to bed is all you can think about. All the good stuff. Being tired is a completely different thing. You’re tired when everything vaguely aches, and you can barely see anymore. You just feel...heavy and defeated, but entirely alert. If you try to sleep, your legs and back hurt so badly that it almost distracts from the headache that’s pressing on your eyes. Beds are prisons at that point,” 

 

He sniffs, awkwardly staring at the screen in front of him. Tony wishes he had learned how to stop himself from rambling, when he was younger. Now he has a sixteen year old staring at him, incredibly concerned. 

 

“Are you tired right now?” Peter asks gently. 

 

“All the time,” If he answers in his most matter-of-fact tone, his reply won’t be so bad. At least, that’s what Tony hopes. 

 

“I don’t sleep well either,” Peter confesses quietly, “It’s not… it’s not like that but sometimes it gets hard. Really hard,” 

 

Tony knows about the nightmares that Peter is avoiding mentioning. Truthfully, neither of them wants to talk about waking up in a cold sweat, sure that the monsters have come for you again. So they don’t. 

 

“I know, Kid,” 

 

And in that moment, Tony feels like sending Peter to his room, just two doors down from his own, would be cruel. They have to sleep, but it feels like a betrayal to turn his back on this boy, and tell him to deal with it all himself. For the second time that night, Tony feels as if his mother has taken over his body when he hears himself speak. 

 

“Why don’t you bunk with me tonight?” 

 

Peter looks profoundly confused, “Like...in your room?”

 

“It sounds weird when you say it like that -- cut it out,” Embarrassed, but sticking to his guns, Tony continues, “It’s something, ugh, it’s something my mom used to do for me. When I was little. I’d stay with her. If-if everything got...hard,” 

 

He has never, in his forty-eight years on this Earth, ever told anyone that. The words nearly choked him on their way out. 

 

“My mom did the same thing,” 

Tony’s so shocked, he doesn’t know what to say. Peter’s never spoken openly about his parents. To find out that they shared something so simple, but so significant, makes Tony feel more human than he has in months. 

 

“So what do you say, Butterbean,” Tony will never tell Peter that Maria Stark used to lovingly run her fingers through Tony’s hair, calling him the exact same thing, “You wanna relive the glory days?” 

 

Peter laughs, “Yeah, with some old guy as a fill in for my mom. Sure,” It’s a joke, because it has to be -- if it isn’t, the awkwardness will force Tony into shutting down -- but he still said yes. Tony smiles. 

 

It occurs to Tony, after they’ve gotten ready for bed, that Peter’s room is also down the hall from Natasha. Suddenly, he doesn’t care how weird this feels. As long as the rogues are in the Compound, Peter isn’t allowed out of Tony’s sight. Since he doesn’t make that decision aloud, no one can point out his paranoia. 

 

It’s odd, to say the least, to try and sleep next to someone who isn’t Pepper. The bed is so ridiculously large that there’s two feet of space between them. Consciously, Tony knows that this was a good idea, because neither of them were going to sleep restfully tonight anyway -- at least now they’ll be together. But another part of Tony insists that this is pointless, and awkward, and his endless fidgeting is keeping Peter awake. Anxiously, he taps his arc reactor with the tips of his fingers. Is the light going to bother Peter? Should he cover it up? Would covering it up be weird? Would Peter notice?

 

All his worrying is soothed, when beside him, Peter emits a tiny snore. It’s the sort of snore palm-sized puppies make; Tony has to hold back a hysterical burst of laughter. As he lets the sound of Peter breathing -- and snoring adorably on every exhale -- lull him into serenity, Tony finds himself wishing the bed were smaller. His hands itch to reach out and confirm that it’s actually Peter beside him, that the breathing is real and not an auditory hallucination. He wants to curl his fingers in Peter’s hair and never let go because that’s  _ his kid _ . The same kid that Tony was sure for two entire weeks he’d never see again. The boy that he was certain had died screaming. But Tony restrains himself, because he doesn’t want to do something he’ll regret. Slowly, agonizingly so, he forces himself into slumber. 

  
  


_ “Mr. Stark?”  _

 

_ His leg is nothing more than a bleeding stump. He drags himself across the floor, ignoring the path of blood that follows him.  _

 

_ “Mr. Stark?”  _

 

_ They’re just watching him, his old team-mates. Watching as he claws his way to the cell door, hopeless and desperate. They don’t care that he’s dying, and they won’t help him. Tony keeps going. If he doesn’t reach Peter in time, they’ll cut him up, too. Just like they cut up Tony.  _

 

_ “Mr. Stark!”  _

 

_ His chest is ripping itself open, the arc reactor falling to the floor with a resounding thump. Tony’s whole body is tearing itself apart as penance to his weeping son.  _

 

_ “Mr. Stark?” _

 

_ The screaming is going to be last thing he hears. Tony knows it. Blood pours out of his ears and mouth. When he tries to console the screaming child, still crawling forward, he chokes on it.  _

 

**_“Mr. Stark!”_ **

  
  


Gasping, Tony jerks awake. He’s lying on his side, clutching his pillow. Panic shrouds his every thought. As he becomes aware of where he is, his heartbeat refuses to slow. Sufficiently terrified, his heart races at an uneven pace, stuttering over every other beat. His breaths don’t reach his lungs.

 

He’s in his bed, isn’t he? If he’s in his own bed, then he’s safe, isn’t he? But that’s not why he’s panicked -- why is he panicked? 

 

Peter. 

 

Still sobbing, Tony claws at the bedsheets, suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that Peter is beside him. But he isn't moving. He’s stopped snoring, too. Peter’s face is lax, and Tony’s can’t see if his chest is still rising. Frantically, he closes the space between them. In his haste to confirm that Peter’s heart still beats, Tony practically collapses next to him. His hands, trembling terribly, clumsily search for a pulse; his fingers slap against soft skin. 

 

_ Please _ , he prays, as he never has before _. Please, he’s my son.  _

 

Just as Tony registers a steadily beating heart beneath his fingertips, Peter’s eyes flutter open. 

 

“Mr. Stark?” He sounds so young, “You okay?” 

 

Sleepily, he squints at Tony looming over him. Tony finds that he can’t answer. Peter’s voice is like music. Still half asleep, Peter feels the hand resting heavily on his throat. 

 

“Oh,” He sighs, sinking back into his pillows, “I’m good, Mr. Stark, don’ worry about me,” 

 

Before Tony can realize how much he hates that Peter knows he was checking for a pulse, and then felt the need to console him, Peter’s hand -- so small, so light, so soft -- gently encircles Tony’s own. Peter holds Tony’s fingers at his neck, and promptly falls back asleep. 

 

Stunned, Tony freezes. He couldn’t move away from Peter even if he wanted to. Only a week ago, he wasn’t speaking to Peter, too afraid of burdening a child more than he already had. Now, he’s lying next to that same child, with a hand against his neck, wondering how he’ll ever let go. As he gazes down at Peter, he realizes that  _ this _ is what he’ll regret. He won’t spend the rest of his life hating himself because he gave into the whim to caress his son’s cheek -- he’ll hate himself because he didn’t. 

 

_ Not my son. He never was. He never will be.  _

 

Tony is past caring. He may never get to have this again. Softly, he traces the soft curve of his cheek. He mourns the loss of Peter’s baby fat. Desperately, he wishes he had done this when it was still there. He lowers himself down onto the mattress, and rests his head on Peter’s pillow. Tenderly, he slides a hand into Peter’s hair, gently toying with the ends. It’s soft, and thick. Tony never thought he would be allowed to have this. But Peter, still asleep, nuzzles into the touch, and Tony can’t believe he’s real. 

 

There was a song his mother sang to him, on nights when she had her fingers in his hair. “My Special Angel” by Bobby Helms. Tony lets himself hum the chorus into Peter’s ear. 

 

Peter’s heart is beating under Tony’s hand. Peter’s hair is curled into Tony’s palm. Peter’s snores harmonize with the song. 

 

Tony does not have a son. He never will. Tony may never get to do this again, never feel this peace. But he lost this before he ever had it, and gained it back again. As he falls asleep, no longer tired, he knows he won’t let go in the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Is the ending too self-indulgent? Eh, the rest of the series was angst-filled, so I think we deserve some cuddling. As always, let me know what you thought with comments and/or kudos. 
> 
> If you want to talk about irondad, send me and ask on tumblr! My username is Loubuttons.


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